


Six of One

by cryogenia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Coddling, Emetophilia, Eridan takes a while to catch on though, F/M, Hand Feeding, M/M, Multi, Stuffing, also Sollux is There Too, because of generally how he is as a person, consensual (but under negotiated) kink, gigantic eldritch monster fish girlfriend, mild exhibitionism, or is that gillfrond, post erisolsprite, press f to pay respects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 19:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: All else considered it’s not a half-bad party, you decide three drinks in. Especially since it brings life-changing discoveries.





	Six of One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jangnan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jangnan/gifts).

All things considered it’s not a half-bad party, you decide after three drinks in. Especially seein’ as it’s hosted by alien land dwellers and the fact that, well, you don’t exactly have a wealth of experience to compare it to. Most ‘parties’ you’ve joined have at least one gamblignant (Vris) and a lot of rule legislacerators (also Vris, if the rule’s in her favor). 

The parties you’ve  _ read _ about are like this though. Whatsit – pink meowbeast human, has a wit like a firecracker when lit – isn’t one of the ones obsessed with ‘irony’ but they sure knocked it off the velvet by accident. It’s like they reached into an old-world romance and pulled out a sea dweller’s salon complete with ocean spray, political intrigue, and pounding bass to melt your face off.

Sol must be  _ annoyed as shit. _

You glance over at his side of the cabana. He’s stretched out on a black towel, the contrast to your white one, though his is considerably less sandy. He’s been keeping it off with a fury only a psionic can muster, and you are adamantly not jealous. You’re not. You have the memory of a memory of that power flowing through you, and you know its aftermath is a horns-deep ache. Wielding psionics with precision wears a meathusk the fuck out, and you’re not surprised Sol is a sleepy lump of scowls, flopped next to his palmhusk but not actually using it.

He catches you watching him and flips you off through the legs of Fef’s drink tray.

You return it with both hands, feeling an inexplicable tightness ease within your chest.

Fef herself is resplendent between you, holding court on a deck chair barely long enough for her legs. Barely big enough for any of her dimensions. Fef has hair for fathoms, fins for miles; hips barely covered by a flip of sea-skirt. Which is the only covering she’s wearing aside from her holostar shade-goggles. She actually  _ likes _ ‘sunbathing’ because as ever, she’s made of tougher stuff than you could ever dream. Even if the star here isn’t radioactive enough (or maybe the ozone exists enough) to cook a body’s sponges, it’s still fuckin’  _ miserable _ . You lay under tiki canopies and melt, and she’ll bask on the beach head like a diurnal. She’s laid out so many dawns that she’s nearly bleached herself ash.

She’s got a loconut drink cradled in one hand, complete with curly straw and tiny umbrella. Her palm is so big the nut looks like a regular-size dish.

Your fins start to shiver, imagining those huge fingers crushing  _ them _ , and nope, that’s enough jerkass pining for today. You focus hard on your own beverage instead, a weird smashed-fruit thing that isn’t very good but like fuck you’re gonna admit that now. You’re cool, you’re fuchsia-fine. You’re still getting used to sitting with trolls anywhere, back in the flesh where you can’t will the dream to swallow you if you make a mistake.

You hadn’t even meant to crash their little private party in the first place; like most nonsense in your life (and afterlives, and now this latest ridiculous trip after that) it just sort of cropped up. Doesn’t stop from  _ keep  _ happening. You’d been circulating at the edges of the crowd, mostly nodding, raising a glass at a salamander or three like you knew them. Hand to cod, you honestly just like to play like you’re part of something. Then ‘a course, the one cabana you think to explore and hooray, it’s Sol and Fef for the zillionth time this week.

You aren’t proud to admit you’d just stood there with your fool mouth open, trying to think up some kind of a graceful explanation, until Fef had rolled her eyes and pointed at her feet.

_ Sit _ , she’d told you and you sat. 

So that was that and this is good, and aside from this regrettable excuse for a beverage, this ‘reunion’ shit might be the best thing any of you have done since falling into this new universe. You’re even grudgingly impressed with the organization. Pink-meowbeast dredged this entire sandbar out of empty ocean for the occasion and the new land has actually stayed clean. NPCs and players as far as the eye can see, yet half the sand still has grooves from sandrakers.

Sol grunts, the most noise he’s made in minutes. 

“Jake’s here,” he says, the way someone else might say ‘we have mites’.

Fef yawns like Sol’s woken her up, but makes a vague attempt to look out to sea. The cabana is set back away from the party, its open side facing the water. You can see a familiar someone in improbably short-shorts careening by on a paraglider, being pulled by a different Someone on an unimaginably shitty hoverboard. 

Fef squints. 

“Which one?” 

“Ass-out human,” Sol says. “Fucking obnoxious.”

Sol doesn’t clip the ‘g’ but you hear it anyway; your words on his lips. You aren’t sure why you feel guilty. It’s not like he didn’t leave you with his own bee ess.

“He’s not that bad,” you counter, mostly because you want to jog Sol back onto his own vitriol. “At least he talked to us.”

“He believes in  _ breakfast calisthenics _ ,” Sol says, and yup, that’s his own beef. Never mind how round your ass is,  _ you _ don’t have a problem getting off it.

Fef nods. She’s got a better relationship with her human, the - damn it, pink meowbeast again, shit. You really ought to make flashcards.

“Should we say hi?” Fef asks.

“ _ No _ ,” you both say in unison.

“Okay! Jeez, you don’t need to carp at me.”

Fef reaches into the thermal container on the tray beside her chaise. There’s a subtle rustle of ice and then she draws a handful of stones into her lap. 

She brings one to her mouth and squeezes it between three powerful fingers, shattering it open to reveal something meaty in the middle.

“Oyster?”

You’re still processing whether she means you or just Sol when she gets impatient and tosses a couple, unopened, to each of you.

“Thanks?” you mutter. 

Honestly, you’re not much for anything with a digestive system – like ‘a course proper sea cuisine is great, you’ll eat the shit out of some halibut! – just. You’d prefer not to eat  _ actual  _ shit. Fully deveined, nicely chargrilled shrimp is more your speed. Or Lobsters Thermidor, which you haven’t actually eaten, but you know it’s expensive, so probably it’s just the tail.

You’re aware Fef is watching you from behind those goggles though. That little curve at the edge of her lips is an echo of the laugh she’d once had for you, aeons ago.

_ Fussy fins _ , she’d giggled when you’d tried (and gagged) on jellied eel.

You pick up one of the oysters and pry at it reluctantly. Slurping it down feels like eating briny boogeys, but like hell you’re going to back away from a challenge. You take a hard pull on your drink to wash your mouth out and that’s still not great either, but Berry Abomination is better than concentrated salt.

Fuck, think how  _ Sol _ must feel about it. Dumbass land dweller probably can’t even pronounce ‘haute cuisine’, let alone had to unwrap it.

“Here,” you say graciously, cracking open the second one for him. That you don’t particularly want it doesn’t make it less magnanimous. You extend the mussel to the hapless land dweller, only to see all four of his empty shells orbiting his head like a halo. Fuckin’ show-off.

Sol takes the oyster anyway, levitating it straight up out of your hand. That shit-eating, snaggle-toothed grin is no less hideous when not coming from a mirror.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” he snickers.

It’s as easy as breathing to flip him off again so you do. It’s fun and familiar, like your own secret code that still says, ‘fuck this guy in particular’ to everyone else.

“Sit an’ spin.”

“Not in public,” Fef giggles. It’s a terrible line too, but she uses it as an excuse to hook Sol closer to her throne, one large hand cupping around both his right horns. 

Like that doesn’t make the oyster churn in your middle. You bury your burning expression in the dregs of your dumb fruit drink, praying your fins aren’t as violet as they feel.

Cause fuck,  _ public _ is one of those things you’re sure you didn’t have before you were at least half him. And you don’t have to lean on just his memories to know what they’d look like either. They’d used to splay out in a horn pile,  _ rubbing _ horns, right in the middle of the fuckin’ meteor. Not hard to fast-forward that, picture Sol nestled wholesale in Fef’s lap. You do remember how she’d laughed when she’d squish Sol between her legs.

That used to make you jealous. Now it gives you…other feelings.

Even better, one of the stupid crocodile waiters decides this is exactly the right wrong time to ask if you want a refill. They scuttle up out of nowhere waving a notepad, nak’ing curiously at your empty cup.

Whatever. Fuck it.

“Give me an Undertow,” you say, not so much because it’s your favorite as it’s one of the things you remember that isn’t fruity. Nakodiles aren’t great on answering questions about the menu (or knowing the menu in the first place) but their drinks are strong and plentiful. And it would take a lot more to get you proper smashed, but you wouldn’t mind floating a bit.

The nakodile scribbles down something incomprehensible on its menu pad.

“I want a Code Red,” Sol chimes in from across the way. Fef shakes her head. The nakodile looks back at you and chatters their teeth in a way that would be concerning if they didn’t have a tiny towel hanging out of their apron. Hard to be afraid of anything carrying a towel.

“And I want mine on the rocks,” you clarify. “By which I mean, fuckin’  _ ice _ , you reprobates.”

The less said about your first drink today, the better.

The nakodile just tilts its head and gnashes their teeth again in a much less friendly fashion. They hold their webbed hand out like there’s something you’re forgetting. Which, shit, would be the money, which you are running low on for bullshit reasons. The stipends are upright deplorable on this stinkin’ planet; everyone gets the same unless they get a job, which you  _ can’t _ cause ‘a more different bullshit. Lusus-hunting isn’t a thing on this planet with no eldritch monsters, and while you half-remember how to root a palmhusk, Sol didn’t leave you with a bleedin’ clue why.

You offer your nicest oyster shell instead, because there’s other sprite nonsense you can leverage at least.

“Mothergrub-of-pearl, see?” You flip it turnways to show off the inside. The milky coating catches the light, shimmering through the full hemospectrum of color. “Rare as shit.”

That’s a lie, nacre is basically the inside of every pearl oyster, but what the consorts don’t know ought to score you drinks. You’d sooner shuck yourself than make Fef or Sol pay.

The nakodile snatches the shell and shoves it right up to one wide set eye. After few seconds they make a pleased sound and tear off the top sheet from their order pad. You know it’s coming, but you still wince when they bring both shell and receipt up to their teeth to staple them together with a loud crunch.

“Oh, and I want mine stirred,” you add. “Not shaken. None ‘a that ‘sea foam head’ shit.”

The server nods their head vaguely, clearly only half-listening. They scuttle away, waving the shell with its paper trail. Typical. BiteCoin is most valuable when it’s first minted. You’ve invented three new types in the last few nights alone, and the market doesn’t show any signs of cooling.

“Erifin!” Fef laughs, and oh, if that doesn’t give you whiplash. Half pet name, half admonishment. “That was terribubble.”

You risk a glance at Sol, who shrugs.

“It’s just as bullshit as any other crypto.”

You duck your horns a little, hot in the fins again. You ain’t about to admit it, but sometimes it’s kind of nice to  _ know _ you’re of the same mind as a body.

Fef offers you a whole pile of oysters and you play with them, tracing your claws over every bump and groove. The heat of the day is starting to radiate up through your blanket and the sopor is percolating too, leaving you indolent and loose-limbed.

“Here,” Fef says when you finally eat one, offering a sip off her own drink to wash it down. The creaminess curls all the way down your front, pooling in your nook because. Cod, she knows you don’t care for mussels, she  _ remembers  _ and she’s rewarding you for trying them anyway.

“Did you catch these?” you ask her. 

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, a lyrical little lilt.

“They’re not bad.”

Sol raises an eyebrow because he’s had your tastebuds. He knows damn well you don’t eat anything with a head or an asshole. You wiggle your fins and shrug back because fuck him, you are not above pretending to be The Good One. 

Not that there really is that difference like that. Neither of you can say you split evenly into a Good Side and Bad Side, you’re just sides. 

There’s a tickle of pressure starting to build in your belly too but it only adds to the warmth. Fef opens your next oyster with her impressive claws and you don’t even notice the taste thinking about how they’d feel on your scalp. Your  _ throat. _

_ (In public.) _

The noise of the festival is just far enough away to ripple through your groin, drawing in toward your seam. You squeeze your legs together and remind yourself, you’re cool.

(_Oh yes, f_ _ uchsias are definitely fine. _ )

The nakodile returns with an oversized tray, bearing two vases that turn out to be your drinks. Sol gets the disgusting rustie-colored soda and you accept the bright blue Undertow. It has sparkles swirling in it from edible glitter.

Fef somehow pulls a coin from the waist of her teeny swim skirt and ‘tips’ the consort the amount the drinks were probably supposed to be.

“You’re no fun,” Sol complains.

“We’re Roxy’s guests,” Fef reminds him in a breathless way that tells you ‘Roxy’ is that name you ought to have remembered. You tip back your irresponsibly large drink and forget it immediately, lost in the rush of how good it feels just to  _ be here. _

Because you’d thought that invitation was a mistake, okay. Like it had the proper Consort Kingdom seal, and it got you on the ferry, sure. But every time you get asked to things feels like a mistake, right until that moment when you realize, things are going  _ well _ . You found someone to sit with. You didn’t trip on your face. You didn’t fuck up an entire timeline like a douche. Etc.

_ ‘Players understand’  _ the invite had said. Maybe they actually fuckin’ do.

You pop open another oyster and kick it back with a considerably better drink. Fef beams at you, Sol returns to his phone, and you resist the urge to trill.

Fef rummages in the ice chest again, extracting a slightly smoother shell. You hold out your hand automatically now but she gives it to Sol instead. Flipping him off is getting tired, so you stick your tongue out instead. He counters with his tongue in between the v of his fingers. It sends a humiliating twinge through your core.

“These are fruitier,” Fef says, mercifully ignoring both of you.

“I guess?” Sol says. You try to think if you’ve ever tasted anything but chewy salt either, but if it would keep this heat going you would find out.

“I wanna try,” you tell her.

Fef favors you with a smile and finds one of the biggest mussels you’ve ever seen, a sleek, meaty thing. When she pulls it apart there’s a fat pearl waiting in the center of it. She gives that bauble to Sollux too, and you  _ knew _ better than to expect anything different, but you still have that flash of petty disappointment -

A soft tap ricochets through your right horn, sending pure shivers down the side of your neck. You tilt your head up and Fef is offering the meat of the oyster to you. Fully shucked,  _ straight from her hand _ . 

You stare long enough she puts it to your lips. When you swallow, you catch your lips on her talons. You can feel them tingle like they’re electric. 

Sol makes a disgruntled noise.

“FF-”

“Shoosh,” Fef hushes him as if they’re fuckin’ moirails and your breath catches. Even Sol has the decency to look scandalized. It seems to roll off ‘a Fef’s back like water, because she leans over and finds him his own oyster, taking it apart with the same surgical care she must have exacted for you. For  _ you. _ Her huge fingers curl against Sol’s mouth and his eyes flare.

He can see you watching him. He has to know that you know that it’s hot you’re watching. That you can’t wait for him to watch you once again, being pleased.

A gush of wetness pulses between your legs and you clench your thighs together. Sol scowls and holds your gaze as he swallows the treat all the way down. 

You’re up on one elbow now, fins quivering for the slightest indication she’s shifting back. Their tines are studded with lateral line organs, tiny, circular sensors that give you the feeling of  _ tingling _ and  _ pressure  _ and _ good  _ when currents change. Fef reaches for you and you feel it, electric, to your bones.

She doesn’t have an oyster this time, just a strong finger beneath your chin. The din of the festival seems very far away as she makes you meet her grin.

“You can finish it,” she purrs, nudging something into your hand. It’s the remains of her loconut, when you already have so much. 

You down it in seconds, reeling with a full body blush. 

Sol sits up cross-legged on his blankets. He slouches over and hooks his chin on the side of her chaise, wrinkling his nose. You think you recognize that pout as your old one. It’s not endearing on account ‘a it looks like he’s smelling a turd. You’re mildly ashamed he got stuck with it.

Fef ruffles the hair between his horns, crooning something ruddy and low. It’s not yours, but the memory of it echoes in you too. You attack the Undertow again to pretend you don’t know how dopey-sweet Sol’s face gets. 

You’re starting to feel a little heavy through your middle. Comfortable, with a diffuse fullness that might settle worse if it weren’t for the hint of sopor taking the edge off. You wiggle your hips experimentally and your belly sloshes, tipping you off balance in unexpected ways. It makes your breath hitch and your inner muscles roll.

Fuck, you’re in public and you still want something to ride between your nook lips.

Fef is still busy massaging Sol’s hornbeds, but she spares you an indulgent smile. You’re thrilled to remember she has both hands free when she gives you another set of oysters. You eat these yourself, proud to show her you can manage it.

“Good,” she giggles, to you or to Sol it doesn’t matter. She has Sol sparking and simultaneously drooling and you realize with a bolt of clarity what this is. 

Cuttlefish. It’s like you’re her fuckin’ cuttlefish, pretty props she can use for games of her own design. You and Sol, whichever bits got left with which after your mashed-up hideous whirlwind, she’s interested in stirring up. 

A crusty part of you is still prideful enough to be offended about being a toy. You were always the Clouder, the raid leader, the campaign master; you don’t cleave to anyone’s direction. There’s nothing stopping you. You could just ditch.

You don’t.

Instead you take a hard suck at her empty loconut. It makes the most pitiful slurping straw sound.

Fef lets Sol slump with his chin against her hand, gently urging him to shift back down to his appointed place in a pile at her side.  _ Beneath _ her. You squirm your thighs together and wait with your fins displayed. 

She leans all the way off the lounge chair, stretching over you like the sky. She has so very many more needle-sharp teeth than she used to.

This time her fingers don’t stop at your chin when she touches you. Thick talons trace down the muscles of your neck. Her thumb is right over the hopbeast-skip of your pulse in an artery. 

“Erifin,” she says, teasing out each syllable.  _ Teasing _ . 

Your whole belly throbs when you shift onto your knees, but you have to be closer when she fists a hand in your t-shirt. 

She’s sitting up for real now and you and Sol are glaring at each other over her thighs. She swirls a rough hand over both of your heads. Well, a few knuckles. Her hands are so large she could easily palm you if you didn’t have horns to get in the way. Sol’s right horns are spitting little sparkles but it’s you she hands another set of oysters. No one else is anywhere near but you feel exposed down to the bone as Sol watches you eat them. As  _ Fef  _ watches.  _ Fuck _ . You have to grope for your drink because you can’t take your eyes off them. 

You’re getting full enough now it’s hard to want a whole lot more liquid, but the oyster taste is still too salty to survive on its own. Your lower belly is so tight it would be a relief to let your bulges out, but fuck, Sol and Fef are  _ right there _ . You don’t know if this is going there and all you’ve got is board shorts, and if they weren’t black you’d have had to escape long ago. Your nook is so wet it would look like you spilled something.

As you drink, you can almost imagine you feel your bulges through the sheath, pressed into a throbbing line by the weight of your digestive sac.

Fef’s frigid hand slides the way down your chest, spreading welcome calm into your twinging belly.

“Come up here,” she says, and this time you don’t question that it’s supposed to be you. You grunt and haul yourself to stand, nook rippling again at how hard your body shifts. You can feel Sol’s eyes on you, burning holes in your pathetic carcass. He looks irritated and  _ hungry,  _ the way neither of you should be.

She grips your hips and helps you swing onto the lounge chair, one knee barely on either side of her hips. She’s so big you can’t entirely get enough purchase to keep yourself lifted, and you nearly slip trying not to bear too much weight on her.

Static ripples all over your bare knees and you make an embarrassing noise as psionics catch you. The world wheels as Fef and Sol both right you, plunking you right back against her front anyway. Your stomach lurches as she rubs it against her and you make a weak noise because, shit.

You used to want her red but this feels like a challenge. Not even a challenge; like she’s the angler and you’re her prey. And there’s still music somewhere in the background, and Sol’s hand is sort of on your knee, and you are  _ soaring _ .

Fef hums and dismantles another oyster for your benefit, and you don’t hesitate.

You eat.

It feels better with Fef directly touching you.  _ Watching _ you like Sollux is, like anybody could be, if they wandered over. Thinking about it has you wriggling in her lap, grinding on an ache from your belly to your nook. She in turn gives you tidbits and you lap them from her fingers. When you whine, she rubs her free hand down your aching flank. Your drink appears from nowhere and you drain it till it’s dry. You aren’t a quitter and fuck, you are a solid ache, and it feels incredible.

The only thing keeping your bulges in is the sheer press of Fef’s muscular body, and the pinch of every stomach muscle you have.

It’s only when you have to pause to hiccup, and can’t stop hiccupping, that you get a reprieve. Fef coos and runs both cool hands up under your shirt. You keen back for her, weakly. The last thing you need is that kind of movement and it makes you feel terrible. Sick. Like everything’s moving up and if you don’t fight, it’ll keep going.

She kneads just-so and that awful pressure subsides a bit, leaving you panting and breathless against her chest. The hiccups continue intermittently, just tiny sporadic jolts.

“There you go,” she purrs, rubbing tight circles at the hollow of your back. “So good.”

Fuck, you are  _ good. _

You risk cracking a single eye open, trying to get your bearings aside from her rumblespheres. Sol is nowhere to be seen, which leaves you a little lonely in ways that you can’t define. No one is anywhere to be seen which is good because you’re aching in more ways than one.

A cool thumb sweeps over your brow, coaxing your other eye open.

“Are you drunk?” Fef asks.

“No,” you tell her, woosy. “I’m just...comfortable.”

That’s not entirely the right word, you’re certainly not  _ intoxicated  _ but you’re very far from comfortable. You’re so full you feel like you’re going to explode but you want more, you want her to  _ touch _ you. 

Fef smiles that wicked predator’s smile and you realize you’re flexing your hips right at her. Rubbing your nook right up against her middle, and you might be wearing black but she’s not. There’s a faint violet smear on both her low belly and that tiny split skirt. She could shift that skirt aside, impale you on her own bulge.

Fef rubs two fingers down hard, drawing the pain into a sharp line over your taut belly, before dipping beneath your stretched out waistband.

“Okay?” she asks. You nod like your head’s on a string.

She finds either side of your swollen bulge sheath and  _ pinches. _

You cry out as tension ratchets up until it feels you’ll split apart through the middle and then your lower belly all goes slack at once. 

Your bulges dump out in a confused pile, coiling into Fef’s blessedly cool, gigantic hand.

“Hello,” she says, actually shaking one like she’s saying ‘nice-to-meet-you’, and the rest of you can’t stop shaking too.

You cling to her shoulders for dear life as she curls all three tendrils down into your own slit, letting you ride her hand desperately as you trill. She feeds all three tendrils into your nook and  _ now  _ you are so full you’re bursting. Belly to bulges, everything is one huge feedback loop of pain-pleasure-need-to-move-can’t-move. You let Fef rub you all over instead, muffling your most embarrassin’ noises in her chest.

You want to know where Sol is, if Sol is  _ seeing this _ . Does he have both bulges in himself already. Is that why he’s not drooling over hot you are. Fucking yourself on a public beach underneath all your clothes, letting Fef work you however she likes.

That thought is ultimately what brings you, along with the hard push of a hand over your gut. You clamp down hard on Fef’s broad frame and shake as your own slurry loops in to your greedy nook. Filling up your innermost material storage sac, which is already pressing on your stomach. You didn’t think you could take any more but you are, and it aches but it’s also  _ incredible. _

You feel massive, one top-heavy balloon. Fef’s hands supporting your back are the only thing keeping you from toppling over.

You can’t move. 

You can’t  _ move. _

Finally it subsides, leaving you free again. Leaving you wrecked. Everything from the waist on down tingles. 

Fef’s eyes glitter behind her goggles. She sounds so pleased when she strokes your face.

“Look at you,” she rumbles.

Blearily you try to look, because that’s what she said. You’re so full up you can scarcely take a full breath, let alone twist. When you look down all you see is the curve of your belly, pillowing your shirt out until it’s taut.

You hiss, honestly and utterly knocked flat. Your stomach isn’t exactly what you’d call flat at any time but you’ve never looked like this. You run one of your own hands over the crest of it, astounded.

Fef looks proud. You  _ feel _ proud. You bet they thought that you couldn’t do it. But you are made of such tough fucking stuff. 

When you try to stand and admire yourself from a different angle though, something else happens.

Maybe it was the mix of shit you drank with the raw shellfish, or just the sheer quantity that you ingested, but something is no longer sitting. You hiccup hard and all that sickness comes crashing back with it, and maybe you would be all right but you’re no longer on balance. Your new weight sways you toward the ground and you trip, unfortunately compressing hard on your sore stomach.

You bend over the edge of the chair just in time for it to all come back up in one awful, mortifying rush. 

Oh god oh fuck you  _ did not fucking do that _ , but you did, you goddamn did. Fef’s got both hands braced on your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and that’s the only thing keeping you from falling into your own mess. You no longer feel sick but your stomach is still throbbing and nope, you’re sick again.

By the time you’re finally wrung out, you’re exhausted. The relief is palpable, but so is your utter, abject shame. The only thing you’re glad about is that Sol isn’t here to see this. You probably would have gotten it all over him.

Fef’s hands draw slower, soothing circles down your back. She doesn’t shoosh you - maybe that line will always be too far - but she does give you a piece of ice to suck on. It helps clear the horror in your mouth out.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, drawing you to her chest. “You worked so hard.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Don’t fuckin’ patronize me.”

A big hand seizes one of your horns and flicks it. You can’t help the residual shudder that races down your back.

“I mean it,” Fef says. “You did so well. It was just. Maybe little tuna much.”

“Tuna. much.”

You honestly gape at how awful that is. Fucking. Fish puns while you’re still dripping with slurry.

You wonder how you never considered pitch with her before.

Fef snickers, showing teeth, and kisses you on the forehead. You graciously allow her to hook her hands beneath your legs so she can boost you into a flawless combustion combatant’s carry. 

Fef slides off the lounge on the side opposite the mess and rises with you effortlessly. She’s always been so strong, and she’s taking you  _ with her _ .

You stutter like you haven’t for sweeps but you think, under the circumstances, it can be allowed.

“W-where are w-we goin’?” you ask drowsily. 

“To ‘coon.” 

That sounds good. You  _ are _ upright fucking exhausted. All of this putting-in business took a lot out of you. If she did set you down, you’re not sure you’ll stand.

“Also, w-where’s Sol?”

“Looking out.”

“‘S too bad,” you mumble. 

Fef’s huge fins ripple against the ocean breeze. Not even a hundred feet down the sandbar, a few carapaces are setting up for croquet.

“Yes. Next time, he can stay and look after you too,” Fef says, with a tiny, wicked grin. 

More like ‘laugh at’, you think, but that’s obliterated by the thought of ‘next time’.  There will  _ be  _ a next time.

You close your eyes against Fef’s husky laugh, even the four-horned shadow that tells you Sol too is here, hovering somewhere obnoxiously overhead. The sun is bright, the air is hot.

Hope isn’t a thing for losers like you, but against all odds, sometimes hope exists.


End file.
